


MP (Memories and Pawprints)

by YawningOverTheTapestries



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But just a little angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Me trying to soothe feels, Military Working Dogs, Post-Reichenbach, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YawningOverTheTapestries/pseuds/YawningOverTheTapestries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And dog makes three. At least, it makes 221B feel a little less empty.</p>
<p>Well, nothing can completely fill the space Sherlock left behind, but Gladstone's got something special about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	MP (Memories and Pawprints)

**Author's Note:**

> I can make a good guess as to where the story will have led to when we re-join the Sherlock 'verse. So this is, well, me trying to make it hurt a little less.
> 
> Also, I've had a lot of Gladstone headcanons over time, and this is what I've finally decided he is. In my mind.

"So... what can you tell me about... this one?" John made an elongated gesture towards the pen at the end, a wide one, right alongside the window, it's five-square-feet of apricot tiles bathed in the tender late November sunlight.

"Oh, Gladstone?"

"Yep."

 

John was already kneeling down, paying less attention to the kennel assistant, flicking through her clipboard-restrained notes, now above him.

"He's about four an a half years old... he was a seeing-eye dog for... about a year, before he and his owner sadly got caught in a car crash - the owner wasn't badly hurt, but poor Gladdie here got his shoulder mangled up - not broken, but it nearly got pulled out of joint. Took an operation and a lot of long months of physio to get back in shape."

 

John's curious expression morphed rapidly into one of startled horror, then to pity, as he pushed a hand through the bars to rub it into the black-velvet muzzle poking through them. A pair of shy, melting brown eyes met his dark blue ones.

"He's totally fine now, though. But when his vet finally gave him the All-Clear, and he went back to Guide Dog School, he wouldn't work properly. Wouldn't want to focus on anything. They said... 'he's just not the same Gladstone.' "

John cast his eyes up to her, with a little cautious intrigue.

"I've known a few working dogs. We had a couple of bomb-detectors and the like in Afghanistan - this is what it's like, isn't it? It's their whole life. What they're bred for, and trained for right from when they're puppies."

The kennel assistant nodded. "Absolutely. For any dog that works, their job is what they're all about. Having to leave it will leave a big gaping void in their lives."

Gladstone nuzzled into John's palm, a moist, cool nose right by warm short suede-like fur, drinking in the smell of him. They'd only just met, and the Lab was smothering John with oodles of affection. _Which is pretty much what dogs do,_ John mused, running his other hand over Gladstone's ears, feeling their weight, letting them flop back down over his fingers.

　

 

"I expect he'd bonded really closely to his owner, and was missing him during his time at the vet and when he started training again."

"Oh, yes, you do see that, all the time. Especially with guide dogs. They're trained to be the eyes or ears for someone, after all."

John couldn't help smiling as Gladstone's broad face fitted neatly into his hand, as if it had been made to do that.

"Imagine how we'd feel!" he agreed.

Another warm hand laid itself onto his shoulder. "Gladstone's not going back to Guide Dog School now. Been in the kennels for nearly a month. He's got an absolutely lovely temperament, house-trained to within an inch of his life, and I think he just wants a new family."

"Well, I don't think that's too big an ask," John replied mostly to himself, and to Gladstone, than to voice somewhere above his head.

Gladstone's tail, long and weighty, beat hard and fast against the floor.

"Want to take him home? If just for a couple of days, to see if he fits in your family?"

 

 

John gazed at the pavement in deep thought, for most of the journey home. _My family?_ Not that it was troubling him, but it felt raw and awkward, not broken in properly, still needing some getting-used-to. After all, over a year ago everything had been so different. The people in John Watson's life, whom he'd had just cause to call his family, had been so different. The grief that followed, after... after _that_ , lingered like cold clinging layers of droplets, after a violent storm. John wasn't too great at grieving.

But the bitter, soul-paining feelings gradually began to pass. Everyone missed _him_ , despite their annoyingly uneven willingnesses to share it. Everyone missed him in their own ways, but expressing that helped them to move on. Sharing the pain, remembering him how they would want to.

The horrible thing was that Mary had never met him. But now, months and months later, she seemed to know just as much as everyone else did about him. John spent an insidiary amount of time telling her about him, but instead of get irritated - _like all the others_ \- she didn't mind whatsoever. In fact, from what John told her, which admittedly was rather cripplingly honest, she was almost disappointed that she'd never got to meet him.

That was why John loved her. She shared the tears and the laughs and the long lost weeks and months, her gentleness being what John needed to pick himself back up. Mary now spent half her time at Baker Street and half at her flat at Cavendish Place - John was very reluctant to move out - and things, finally, were starting to go smoothly.

But everyone still needed time. Time to completely move on. Little things kept shaking everyone out of line. Little things that under different circumstances would be missed.

 

That being said, The Dog Thing had been in the air for a while. Mary had been desperate long before she met John. And they agreed, not a puppy. A puppy would be too much work, and not the same as a gorgeous ready-made grown dog already waiting for a home.

 

 

With a big black excited Labrador Retriever-shaped renegade shoving at his calves John managed to get 221B's front door open, and Mrs Hudson got greeted first.

"Ah, this must be your lovely new dog, I've been looking forward to meeting him all day - "

"Mrs Hudson, this is Gladstone - don't worry, he's not going to knock you over - let's get him inside,"

 

Gladstone wasted no time in surveying his new domain, eyes and nose to the floor and wildly wagging weapon of a tail threatening to sweep a pot plant to it's death. Mrs Hudson kept herself busied with finishing her tidying, and arranging the new dog bed in the hallway. John's mobile rang a couple of seconds later.

"Oh, hello, darling... yes, he's home, _and_ he's one of the ones you said you've seen... well, for a couple of days, just to see if he likes it here... I know - I know you wanted to be here... no, I'm sure he's the one you said you loved... "

John poked a head round the door - _where's he gone?_ \- "Of course, you'll see him tonight. Let me just settle him down." Tactfully excusing himself, John called for Mrs Hudson as he paced up the stairs after the pawprints, lightly padding across the floorboards... greeted with the sight of the great dark velvety creature, lazily turning over a pile of clothes like a pig snuffling out truffles - at the call of his name, his great head cocked up, tossing up a long floppy thing that his muzzle had tangled up with.

John laughed, first in incredulity, then warm affection as he caught the end of the long soft frond wound about the Lab's face, it's ashen blue tone an attractive touch of colour against the gleaming ink-black fur.

The scarf even smelled of Sherlock, still, a strange musky smell that stung at John's eyes, as he lifted up half of it to unwind it from Gladstone's head. Warmth smeared in sadness washed over his features, as his eyes met Gladstone's again. The dog tilted his great furred anvil of a head, as if he were wondering what this meant, this halt in John's body language, the hesitation he put into pulling up any more of the blue cashmere - to Gladstone, it was just a scarf. Just another feature of his new home. That was it, that was all he knew and therefore could take into consideration, when he found John doing this.

John let the scarf go limp in his fingers, sighing and casting his eyes flat on the floor. "I'll tell you about it later," he said quietly, giving Gladstone a scratch behind the ear.

 

He didn't get much of a chance to, not when Mary came home, as early as possible to get to meet the latest resident of 221B.

The days passed, no longer like a drip feed, but with a little more ease, and Gladstone settled in beautifully. Christmas managed to sneak in almost unseen, though. But unlike last year, the lack of seasonal violin melodies wasn't quite a saddening atmosphere.

That wasn't to say the flat wasn't swept by quiet.

 

Not even Gladstone's shoulder injury really caught anyone's attention. John only noticed it on the odd occasion, as he let a palm linger on Gladstone's warm thick coat, a slight stiffness of this joint beneath his skin. The Lab barely ever let it show in his gait during walks. Maybe, after all this time, it didn't even hurt any more at all.

That's the thing about dogs, John would reflect. They can't say when something's not right, and even if they could, they wouldn't want to. Dogs don't complain. Dogs just thrive on pleasing their owner.

Regardless, John always felt an ache in the chest whenever he remembered it. It was never something he mentioned.

 

And as Christmas settled in for the night, the somnolence felt not haunting, but peaceful, with John and Mary, both in pretty awful jumpers, curled up on the sofa, soaking in the warmth the room was nursing from the fire, Gladstone faithfully splayed out on the floor at their feet like a living hearthrug. Warming themselves in the homely, gentle red-golden light, Mary was watching the light snowfall drifting about the window outside, gazing at the white freckles catching on the glass until her eyes began to drift into slumber. John was halfway through a book on British politics, starting to tire but still with eyes to the page, carefully taking his time with each page.

Mycroft had been the giver of this gift. Not that anyone had heard a single thing from him otherwise.

 

Mary was on the verge of falling asleep when she was caught back into consciousness by a beautiful noise, albeit still a rare one: John laughing, and laughing properly, with no bittersweetness catching on his voice to give it a fallible edge. Hearing this was a rare treat Mary knew better than to push for hoping to hear more often.

"What is it?" she asked, smiling sleepily, brushing her blonde locks off her eyes.

John turned to her, a knowing smile softening his warmed features, and he showed her the page.

 

" _...after his wife's death, a heartbroken Benjamin Disraeli found she'd kept all the trimmings from every haircut she'd given him over thirty-three years of marriage..._ "

 

Mary had to giggle as well after reading that passage, while John gave a deep chest-emptying sigh, his head suddenly too heavy to hold upright, for a moment.

"I used to share this flat with a man who kept dismembered pieces of human corpses in the bloody fridge."

Mary looked deep and fondly into his face. "He's not going to leave us anytime soon," she smiled.

Gladstone, disturbed from his laze at their feet, heaved up onto his paws and shoved his muzzle between their knees, as if he knew as well.

 

 

Even when the snowfall passed, the days were still bitter and over early, and they filled up with Other Things so fast. Notwithstanding the fact that it's a ridiculous thing to _look forward to_ , a visit to the grave of a friend. Not really something that will be worth a wait.

But it's good manners, if nothing else. To keep a graveside well looked after, to keep paying respects to an old friend no longer with the rest of us.

And when the snow was cleared off Sherlock's graveside, John laid down the fond blue scarf and a fresh bunch of blue hydrangeas, Gladstone sitting quiet, patiently by his side, watching with avid curiosity. That subtle sadness had enchanted John again, especially as he folded up the scarf, bringing it to his face one more time, before laying it at the base of the headstone next to the flowers.

The air smelled strange, beneath the fragrances of earth and pine and flowers; a cold, sickly perfume like mildew. Like it was the smell grief would have, if it had one. Even though Gladstone didn't know what it was, just what humans did around it.

 

"Glads, this is Sherlock - well, where we buried him... Sherlock, I thought I ought to bring Gladstone. Mary and I adopted him... y'know she's wanted us to get a dog for ages. Well, it doesn't feel like it... he's a retired guide dog, he injured his shoulder in a car accident, and ended up back in the kennel. Poor thing, he deserves a good home, and I feel like I've given him one... "

Loyally Gladstone sat up straight alongside John, his brown eyes expectant.

John took a moment to compose himself.

"Sherlock, I know it's been a long time, even though it doesn't feel like it, at all. I still talk about you, to Mary, to everyone, even to Glads here. I'm trying to move on. It's getting easier... 221B doesn't feel completely empty any more, not with a great black Labrador lying on the living room floor all afternoon... "

John sighed, and bowed his head for a moment.

"Anyway, I've gotta go, it's still... it's still good to see you. I know this is... I know what I'm talking to. But this... "

John made a small motion in the direction of the gleaming headstone. "This helps."

Gladstone gave his other hand a sympathetic lick. "I'll see you next Sunday."

 

Leaving the cemetery, the sky was already turning dark blue-magenta, the city lit with fast-fading paleness.

On the other side of the road a tall, svelte, glossy-black figure stood by his Bahnstormer, pausing before he put his helmet back on, a statue of pure black oynx against white-grey granite and marble, the setting sun glinting on his sharp cheekbones as he looked up. And just as still, peering hard at the short fair man and his Lab leaving the cemetery. And his blue-jade eyes grew large as he recognized the stranger. Who, miraculously, didn't so much as turn his head.

The gleaming leather fit his lean body like skin, sleek as a seal's pelt, all ink-black, from his boots right up to his throat, almost a flaunt of his, frankly, impressive self-exaltation. To see him looking like this, one would agree it oddly suited him.

Though that was hardly the point. He _really, really_ didn't want to be in London. But the trail he was following hadn't given him a choice. Besides, now served a good opportunity to check up on everyone, however hard that may be.

But a split second wouldn't do much harm.

That was all it took, though. To see the look John was giving Gladstone, and the sychrony of their gaits.

 

Sherlock raked his long fingers through his curls, which had grown longer over the past few months, and even more ruffled, both consequences of his new favoured mode of transport. Before replacing his helmet and starting up the motorbike and leaving - the remainder of Moriarty's web wasn't going to dismantle itself.

But at that moment there was one solitary thing emblazoned across his mind.

_Good God, he's replaced me with a Labrador._

**Author's Note:**

> A serious word of wisdom : If you're grieving, don't get a dog. Get a dog because you want a dog.  
> If you're grieving, write fanfiction about getting a dog instead.
> 
>  
> 
> As an Animal Science student, and with a sibling with learning difficulties, I'm well aware of the dark side of the working/assistance dog world. Please don't shower me with animal rights critique. Instead, do let us share and enjoy some comfort.
> 
> Because we Sherlockians know what's coming very soon.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and the factlet on Benjamin Disraeli, that I do not know because I'm a politics nerd. I know because I'm a Qi addict. Go look it up if you don't believe it.


End file.
